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****** wjuum The birdlings slumber in their neste, Secure; Lily and rose have veiled their breasts, Demure. They hear the lore-impassioned West's Swift footsteps on the mountain crests. A spirit through the woodland creeps And sighs; A spirit from the distant steeps Replies; Only where wa.ch the willow keeps O’er graves, disturbless Silence sleeps. The river and the meadow floods Sing low. With light, in lake and crinkling chutes, Aglow; Save where the forest's shield protrudes. Gigantic, and broad Darkness broods. Through waste of wavering mist and cloud, The town. Wrapped in the moonlight’s shim'ring shroud, Looks down. From the far hills, its lights and spires Circling the sky with golden fires. The stars, In blending wreaths and rows, Burn bright; More still, more pure and holy, grows The'night. God holdcth safe, with loving hands. The resting seas, and dreaming lands. BEAUTIFUL COUNTESS; Or, A Horrible Mystery, I approached her softly and beir low to lo)k at her face. A Startling and Exciting Story BY SHERIDAN LE FANUE. CHAPTER L In Styria, we, though by no means magnifi cent people, inhabit a castle, or schloss. A small income in that part of the world, goes a great way. Eight or nine hundred a year does wonders. Scantily enough ours would have answered among wealthy people at home. My father is English, and I bear an English name, although I never saw England. But here, in this lonely and primitive place, where every thing is so marvellously cheap, I really don’t see how ever so much more money would at all materially add to our comforts, or even luxu ries. My father was in the Austrian service, and retired upon a pension and his patrimony, and purchased this feudal reeidence, and the small estate on which it stands, a bargain. Nothing can be more picturesque or solitary. It stands on a slight eminence in a forest. The road, very old and narrow, passes in front of its drawbridge, never raised in my time, and its oat, stocked with perch, and sailed over by k. ny swans, and boating on its serface white fleets of water-lilies. Over all this the schloss shows its many-win dowed front; its towers and its Gothic chapel. TLe forest opens in an irregular and very pic turesque glade before its gate, and at the’right a steep Gothic bridge carries the road over a stream that winds in deep shadow through the wood. 1 have said that this is a very lonely place. Judge whether I say truth. Looking from the hall door towards the road, the forest in which our castle stands extends filteen miles to the left. The nearest muanited village is about seven of your English miles to the left. The ne*"est inhabited schloss of any historic asso ciations is that of old General Spielsdorf, near ly twer j miles away to the right. 1 u 'e jaid the “nearest inhabited village,” be- caus there is, only three miles westward, that is to say in the direction of General Spielsdorf's schloss, a ruined village, with its quaint little church, now roofless, in the aisle of which are the mouldering tombs of the proud family of Karnstein, now extinct, who once owned the equally desolate chateau which, in the thick of the forest, overlooks the silent ruins of the town. Respecting the cause of the desertion of this striking and melancholy spot, there is a legend which I shall relate to you another time. I must tell you now, bow very small is the party who constitute the inhabitants of our cas tle. I don't include servants or those depen dents who occupy rooms in the buildings attach ed to the schloss. Listen, and wonder! My father, who is the kindest man on earth, but growing old; and I, at the date of my story, on ly nineteen. Eight years have passed since then. I and my father constitute the family at the schloss. My mother, a Styrian lady, died in my infancy, but I had a good-natured gov erness, who had been w,th me finm, I might al most say, my infancy. I could not remember the time when her fat, benignant face was not a familiar picture in my memory. This was Mad ame Perrodon, a native of Berne, whose care and good nature in part supplied to me the loss of my mother, whom I do not even remember, so early I lost her. She made a third at our dinner party. Tbero was a fourth, Mademoi selle de Lafontaine, a lady such as you term, I believe, a “finishing governess.” She spoke French and German, Madame Perrodon, French and broken English, which partly to prevent its becoming a lost language among m, and partly irorn patriotic motives, we spoke every day. The consequence was a Babel, at which strangers used to laugh, and which 1 shall make no attempt to reproduce in this narrative. And there were two or three young lady friends be sides, pretty neariy of my own age, who were occasional visitors, for longer or shorter terms; and these visits I sometimes returned. These were our regular social resources; but of course there were chance visits from neigh bors of ouly five or six leagues distance. My life was notwithstanding a solitary one, I can assure you. My governantes hid lust so much control over me as you might conjecture such sage persons would have in the base of a rather spoiled girl, whose only parent allowed her pretty nearly her own way in everything. The first occurrence in my existence, which produced a terrible impression upon my mind, which in fact, never has been effaced, was one of the very earliest incidents of my life which I can recollect. Some people will think it so trifling that it should not be recorded here. You will see, however, by-and-bye, why I mention it. The nursery as it was called, though I La 1 it all to myself, was a large room in the upper sto ry of the castle, with a steep oak roof. I can’t have been more than six years old, whon one night I awoke and looking around the room from my bed, failed to see the nursery-maid. Neither was my nurse there; and I thought myself alone. I was not frightened, for I was ODe of thos > happy children who are studiously kept in ig norance of ghost stories, of fairy tales, and of all such lore as make us cover up our heads when the door creaks suddenly, or the flicker of an expiring candle makes the shadow of a bed-post dance upon the wall, nearer to our faces. I was vexed and insulted at finding myself, as I conceived, neglected, and I be ^an to whimper, preparatory to a hearty bout of roaring; when to my surprise, I saw a solemn, but very pretty face looking at me from the side of the bed. It was that of a young lady who was kneeling with her hands under the coverlet. I looked at her with a kind of pleased wonder, and ceased whimpering. She caressed me with her hands, and lay down beside me on the bed, and drew me towards her, smiling. I felt imme diately soothed, and fell asleep again. I was wakened by a sensafion as if two needles ran in to my breast very deep at the same moment, and I cried loudly. The lady started back, with her eyes fixed on me, and then slipped down upon the floor, and, as I thought, hid herself under the bed. I was now for the first time frightened, and I yelled with all my might and main. Nurse, nursery-maid, housekeeper, all came running in, and hearing my story, they made light of it, soothing me all they could meanwhile. But, child as I was, I could perceive that their faces were pale with an unwonted look of anxiety, and I saw them look under the bed, and about the room, and peep under tables and pluck open cup boards; and the housekeeper whis pered to the nurse; “Lay your hand along that hollow in the bed; some one did lie there, so sure as you did not; the place is still warm.” I remember the nursery-maid petting me, and all three examining my chest, where I told them I felt the puncture, and pronouncing that there was no sign visible that any such thing had happened to me. The housekeeper and the two other servants who were in charge of the nursery, remained sitting up all night; and from all that time a servant al #ays sat up in the nursery until I was about fourteen. The morning after I saw this apparition I was in a state of terror, and could not bear to be left alone, daylight though it was, for a moment. I remember my father coming up and stand- at the bedside, and talking cheerfully, and ask ing the nurse a number of questions, and laugh ing very heartily atone of tUe answers; and pat ting me on the shoulder, and kissing me, and t lling me not to be frightened, that it was noth ing but a dream aDd could not hurt me. But I was not comforted, fori knew the visit of the strange woman was not a dream; and I was awfully tightened. I was a Utile consoled by the nursery-maid’s assuring me that it was she who had come and looked at me, and lain down beside me in the bed, and that I must have been half-dreaming not to have known her face. But this, though supported by the nurse, did not quite satisfy me. 1 remember, in the course of that day, a ven erable old man, in a black cassock, coming into the room with the nurse and houskeeper, and talking a little to them, and very kindly to ! me; his face was very sweet ,<s gentle, and he ; told me they were going to pi:^ and joined my : hands together, and desired to say, softly, \ while they were praying, ‘ 7 or i hear all good prayers for us. for Jesus’ 0 ’f~,, r T think these vwere.thf j£ur^.vor<if ., r p.rr\i,nM'ce* to myself, and my nurse used ”’,»r years to make me say them in my prayers. I remember so well t ie thoughtful sweet face of that white-haired old man, in his black cas sock, as he stood in that rude, lofty, brown room, with the clumsy furniture of a fashion three hundred years old, about him, and the scanty light entering its atmosphere through the small lattice. He kneeled, nnd the three women with him, and he prayed aloud with an earnest quavering voice for, what appeared to me, a long time. I forget all my life preceding that event, and for some time alter it is all obscure also, but the 1 scenes I have just deserbed stand out vivid as the isolated pictures of the phantasmagoria sur rounded by darkness. CHAPTER II. I am now going to tell you something so strange that it will require all your faith in my veracity to believe my story. It is not only true, nevertheless, but truth of which I have been an eye-witness, It was a sweet summer evening, and my father asked me, as he sometimes did, to take a little ramble with him along that be'antiful forest vista which I have mentioned as lying in front of the schloss. “General Spielsdorf cannot come to ns as soon as I had hoped,” said my father, as we pursued our walk. He was to have paid ns a visit of some weeks, and we had expected his arrival next day. He was to have brought with him a young lady, his niece and ward, MademoiselleRheinfeldt, whom I had never seen, but whom I had heard describ ed as a very charming girl, and in whose society I had promised myself many happy days. I was more disappointed than a young lady living in a town, or a bustling neighborhood can pos sibly imagine. The visit, and the new acquaint ance it promised, had furnished my day dream for many weeks. “And how soon does he come? ” I asked. “Not till autumn. Not for two months, I dare say,” he answerd, “And I am very glad now, dear, that'yon never knew Mademoiselle Rheinfeldt.” “And why?” I asked, both mortified and curious. '■ “ Because the poor young lady is dead,” he replied. “ I quite forgot I had not told you, but you were not in the room when I received the General’s letter this evening.” I was very much shocked, General Spiels dorf had mentioned in his first letter, six or seven weeks before, that she was not so well as he would wish her, but there was nothing to suggest the remotest suspicion of danger. “ Here is the General’s letter,” he said, hand ing it to me. “ I am afraid he is in great afflic tion; the letter appears to me to have been writ ten very nearly in distraction.” We sat down on a rude bench, under a group of magnificent lyne-trees. The sun was setting with all its melancholy splendor behind the sylvan horizon, and the stream that flows beside our home, and passes under the steep old bridge I have mentioned, wound through many a group of noble trees, almost at onr feet, reflecting in its current the fading crimson of the sky. Gen eral Spielsdorfs letter was so extraordinary, so vehement, and in some places so self-contradic tory, that I read it twice over—the second time aloud to my father—and was still unable to ac count for it, except by supposing that grief had unsettled his mind. It said“ I have lost my darling daughter—for as such I loved her. During the last days of dear Bertha’s illness I was not able to write to you. Before then I had no idea of her danger. I have lost her, and now learn all, too late. She died in the peace of innocence, and in the glori ous hope of a blessed futurity. The fiend who betrayed car infatuated hospitality has done it all. I thought I was receiving into my house innocence, gaiety, a charming companion for my lost Bertha. Heavens! what a fool have I been! I thank God my child died without a suspicion of the canse of her sufferings. She is gone with out so much as conjecturing the nature of her illness, and the accursed passion of the agent of . all this misery. I devote my remaining days to * caC cuis.,«, l -m ■ told I may hope to accomplish ihj- righteous and j merciful purpose. At present there is scarcely I a gleam of light to guide me. I curse my con- j ceited incredulity, my despicable affectation of superiority, my blindness, my obstinac —all — too late. I cannot write or talk collectedly now. I am distracted. So soon as I shall have a little recovered, I mean to devote myself for a time to enquiry, which may possibly lead me as far as Vienna. Some time in the autumn, two months hence, or earlier if I live, I will see you—that is, if you permit me; I will then tell you all that I scarce dare put upon paper ao.v. Farewell Pray for me, dear friend.” In these terms ended this strange letter. Tdough I had never seen Bertha Rheinfeldt my eyes tilled with tears at the sudden intelligence; I was startled, as well as profoundly disap pointed. The snn had now set, and it was twilight by the time I had returned the general’s letter to my father. It was a soft „clear evening, and we loitered, speculating upon the possible meanings of the violent and incoherent sentences which I had just been reading. We had nearly a mile to walk before reaching the road that passes the schloss in front, and by that time the moon was shining brilliantly. At the drawbridge we met Madame Perrodon and Mademoiselle De Lafont- aine, who had come out, without their bonnets, to enjoy the exquisite moonlight. We heard their voices gabbling in animated dialogue as we approached. We joined them at the drawbridge, and turned about to admire with them the beautiful seme. The glade through which we had just walked lay before us. At our left the n rrow road wound away under clumps of lordly trees, and was lost to sight amid the thickening forest. At the right the same road crosses the steep and picturesque bridge, near which stands a ruined tower which once guarded that pass; and beyond the bridge an abrupt eminence rises, covered with trees, and showing in the shadows some grey ivy-clnstered rocks. Over the sward and low grounds a thin film of mist was stealing, like smoke, marking the distances with a transj ar nt veil; and here and there we could see the river faintly flashing in the moonlight. No softer, sweeter scene could be imagined; The news I had just heard made it melancholy, but nothing could disturb its character of pro found serenity, and the enchanted glory and vagueness of the prospect. My father, who enjoyed the picturesque, and I, stood looking in silence over the expanse beneath ns. Ttie two good governesses, stand ing a little way behind us, discoursed upon the scene, and were eloquent upon the moon. Madame Perrodon was fat, middle-aged and romantic, and talked and sighed poetically. Mademoiselle De Lafontaine—in right of her father, who was a German, assumed to be psy- cological, metaphysical, and something of a mystic—now declared that when the moon shone with a light so intense it was well known that it indicated a special spiritual activity. The effect of the full moon in such a state of brilliancy was manifold. It acted on dreams, it acted on lun acy, it acted on nervous people; it had marvel lous physical influences connected with life. Mademoiselle related that her cousin, who was mate of a merchant ship, having taken a nap on deck on snch a night, lying on his back, with his face full in the light of the moon, had wak ened, after a dream of an old woman clawing him by the cheek, with his features horribly drawn to one side; and his countenance had never quite recovered its equilibrium. “The moon this night,” she said, “is full of odylic and magnetic influence—and see, when yon look behind you at the front of the schloss, how all its windows flash and twinkle with that silvery splendor, as if unseen hands had lighted up the rooms to receive fairy guests.” There are indolent states of the spirits in which, indisposed to talk ourselves, the talk of others is pleasant to onr listless ears; and I gazed on; pleased with the tinkle of the ladies conversation. “ I have got in one of my moping moodB to night,” said my father, after a silence, and quoting Shakespeare, whom, by way of keeping up our English, he used to read aloud, he said: “ < In truth 1 know not wby I am so sad: It wearies mo; yon say it wearies you; But how J got it-tame by it.’ “I forget the rest. But I feel as if some great misfortune were hanging over ns. I suppose the poor general’s afflicted letter has had some thing to do with it.” At this moment the unwonted sonnd of car riage wheels and many hoofs upon the road, arrested our attention. They seemed to be approaching from the high ground overlooking the bridge, and very soon the equipage emerged from that point Two horsemen first crossed the bridge, then came a carriage drawn by four horses, and two men rode behind. It seemed to be the travelling carriage of a person of rank; and we were all immediately absorbed in watching that very unnsual spec tacle. It became in a few moments greatly more interesting, for just as the carriage had passed the summit of the steep bridge, one of the lead ers taking fright communicated his panic to the rest, and after a plunge or two the whole team broke into a wild gallop together, and dashing between the two horsemen who rode in front, came thundering along the road towards us with the speed of a hurricane. The excitemt n . of the scene was made more paiuful by the clear, long-drawn screams of a female voice from the carriage window. We all advanced in curiosity and horror; my father in silence, the rest with various ejacula tions of terror. Our suspense did not last long. Just before you reach the castle drawbridge, on the route they were coming, there stands by the roadside a magnificent lime-tree, on the other stands an ancient stone cross, at sight of which the horses, now going at a pace that was perfectly fright ful, swerved so as to bring the wheel over the projecting roots of the tree. I knew what was coming. I covered my eyes, unable to see it out, and turned my head away; al llie w.e moment I heacd aery from my lady- I friends, who had gone on (a little. Curiosity opened my eyes, and I saw .* scene | of utter confusion. Two of the horses were on ! the ground, the carriage lay upon its side with | two wheels in the air; the men were busy re- . moving the traces, and a lady, with a command- j ing air and figure, had got out, and stood with i clasped hands, raising the handkerchief that • was in them every now and tjren to her eyes. | Through the carriage door was now lifted a i young lady, who appeared to be lifeless. My 1 dear old father was already beside the elder | lady, with his hat in his hand, evidently ten- I dering his aid and the resources of his schloss. 1 The lady did not appear to hear him, or to have | eyes for anything but the slender girl who was 1 being placed against the slope of the bank. I approached; the young lady was apparently j stunned, but she was certainly not dead. My ; father, who piqued nimself on being something of a physician, had just had his fingers to her wrist and assured the lady, who declared her self her mother, that her pulse, though faint and irregular, was undoubtedly still distin guishable. The lady clasped her hands and looked upward, as if in a momentary transport of gratitude; but immediately she broke out again in that theatrical way which is, I believe, natural to some people. She was what is called a tine looking woman for her time of life, and must have been hand some; she was tall, but not thin, and dressed in black velvet, and looked rather pale, but with a p oud and commanding countenance, though uov agitated strangely. “Was ever being so born to calamity?” I heard her say, with clasped hands, as icame up. “Here am I, on a journey of life and death, in prosecuting which to lose an hour is, possibly to lose all. My child will not have recovered sufficiently to resume her route for who can say how long. I must leave her; I cannot, dare not, delay. How far on, sir, can you tell me, is the nearest village? I must leave her there; and shall not see my darling, or even hear of her, till my return, three mouths hence.” I plucked my father by the coat, and whis pered earnestly in his ear: “Oh! papa, pray ask her to let her stay with us—it would be so de lightful. Do, pray.” “If madume will entrust her child to the care of my daughter, and of her good gouvernante, Madame l’errodon, and permit her to remain as our guest, under my charge, until her return, it will confer a distinction and an obligation upon us, and we shall treat her with all the care and devotion which so sacred a trust deserves.” “I cannot do that, sir, it would be to task your kindness and chivalry too cruelly,” said the lady, distractedly. “It would, on the contrary, be to confer on us a very great kindness at the moment when we most need it. My daughter has just been disappointed by a cruel mistortuue, in a visit from which she had long anticipated a great deal of happiness. If you confide this young lady to our care it will be her best consolation. The nearest village on your route is distant, and affords no such inn as you could think of placing your daughter at; you cannot allow her to continue her journey for any considerable distance without danger. If, as you say, you cannot suspend your journey, you must pri, with her to-night, and uowhere could you do so with more honest assurances of care and tender ness than here.” There was something in this lady’s air and appearance so distinguished, and even impo sing, and in her manner so engaging, as to im press one, quite apart from the dignity of her equipage, with a conviction that she was a per son of some cons quence. By this time the carriage was replaced in its upright position, and the horses, quite tract able, in the traces again. The lady threw on her daughter a glance which I fancied was not qnite so affectionate as one might have anticipated from the beginning of the scene; then she beckoned slightly to my 1